A day at Hogwarts.

Chapter 639 Useful Contracts

"Fifth grade is a time when one can achieve great things!"

Charles read the old man's reply for a long time before silently closing his communication notebook.

The elderly are busy with their own enjoyment, so I shouldn't disturb them anymore.

At that moment, someone came to his dormitory looking for him.

“Ron?” Charles raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Something wrong at this hour?”

It was getting late, and Ruby had finished her midnight snack. Simon curiously peeked out from behind the bed curtains.

“Well, I need your help with something,” Ron said quickly, “could you make me a mask?”

"It's the kind of thing that makes your face invisible when you wear it, and it can also change your voice."

His fingers unconsciously tightened around the hem of his robe, and he whispered, "But I have no money..."

Charles leaned back in his chair, his probing gaze sweeping back and forth across Ron's face.

“Your requirements are quite specific,” he said slowly, with a hint of scrutiny. “What do you need this for?”

“It is… useful.” Ron quickly avoided the other person’s gaze, his eyes landing on the Phoenix Ball on the shelf beside him. “I’m not doing anything bad, I promise.”

There was a barely perceptible plea in his voice.

A brief silence followed.

Charles stared intently at Ron, as if assessing the credibility of his words.

Finally, he nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips, and said, "Alright, you don't look like you're going to be a prefect in Azkaban."

"Come pick it up tomorrow night, don't come too early, I still have to finish my homework."

Ron's tense shoulders instantly relaxed, he let out a long sigh, and a grateful smile spread across his face as he said, "Thank you so much, Charles!"

"I owe you a huge favor."

"Just remember that." Charles smiled gently.

Ron concluded, "About twenty should be enough."

Charles's lips twitched; he really wanted to ask him if he was planning to form a group to overthrow the Ministry of Magic.

“Okay.” Charles nodded.

Ron returned to the dormitory, where Harry had just come back from the common room and was changing into his bathrobe.

The two greeted each other, and Ron's eyes darted around as he carefully pulled a brand-new parchment from the bedside table.

Under the light, the edges of the parchment shimmered with a mysterious luster, and the winding runes on it seemed to contain powerful magical energy, making it look incredibly formidable.

Ron composed himself and walked toward Harry.

“Hey Harry,” Ron tried to sound casual, “can I do you a favor?”

"I've got my hands on an interesting magic contract and want to test its effects, like a little challenge?"

Harry had just changed into his bathrobe when he heard this, and curiosity flashed in his eyes. He asked, "A contract? Sounds like something Fred and George were working on."

He noticed that Ron had been studying something all this time, and it looked like this was it.

“It’s incredibly simple,” Ron said, unfolding the parchment and running his fingertips over the shimmering words. “You just have to hold back for an hour and not say a single word that has anything to do with Quidditch.”

"If you violate this rule, your nostrils will grow as big as a fist."

"Of course, it's temporary; it'll disappear after a good night's sleep."

"Want to try?"

Harry grinned after hearing this and said, "Ha! That's definitely Fred and George's style."

"Okay, I'll give it a try. I was just about to go to sleep anyway."

He took the quill from Ron, dipped it in ink, and signed his name in a flourish at the bottom of the parchment—Harry Potter. In an instant, the words on the contract burst forth with a dazzling golden light, then sank into the paper, leaving only faint ripples.

Dean and Neville had already been drawn over and were looking at the two of them with curiosity.

"It's working!" Ron suppressed his excitement, carefully rolled up the parchment, and gripped it tightly in his hand. "Start the timer!"

Harry shrugged dismissively, sat on the bed, and prepared to read for a while before bed, as usual.

Suddenly, his hand stopped abruptly, and he quickly pulled it back as if he had been burned.

Beside my pillow lies a copy of "The Wigtown Rangers," a book written by Kenneth Whisp, a Wigtown Rangers fan and renowned author. It chronicles the team's history: Founded in 1422, the Wigtown Rangers wore blood-red jerseys emblazoned with a cleaver. The team's original members were the seven children of the wizard and butcher Walter Parkin—four sons and three daughters. This team was virtually invincible, rarely suffering defeat. It's said that this was partly because their opponents were terrified at the sight of Walter Parkin standing on the bench, wand in one hand and cleaver in the other.

"Haha!" Harry laughed. "You tricked me, didn't you?"

He didn't touch the book, but instead threw himself onto the bed, stretching out his limbs, making a soft creak.

A few minutes passed in silence.

Dean and Neville, always eager for drama, were waiting to see Harry break the contract; he couldn't just fall asleep like that.

The two exchanged a glance, and Neville, feigning concern, said to Dean, "Now there are exams for flying lessons, and my father is planning to buy me the best flying broomstick."

Dean understood and shook his head, saying, "You'd better not. I'm worried you'll fall to your death if you ride the fire bolt."

Neville was a little upset. Even though they were working together to trick Harry, you shouldn't have said such blunt truths.

Ron picked up the conversation and said seriously, "Navi, I suggest you borrow everyone's brooms to try them out before buying a flying broom. See which one you can control before you buy it."

Dean also said, "Yes, that's how it should be."

Ron continued, "It'll be the weekend soon, you can talk to the students who have flying brooms."

“No problem,” Harry suddenly spoke up, naturally taking over the conversation, “I can lend you my Firebolt…”

The conversation abruptly stopped.

A soft crackling sound rang out, and Harry's nose began to deform in an unbelievable way.

His nostrils expanded and swelled rapidly as if being inflated, his skin taut and shiny, and in the blink of an eye, they swelled to the size of Dali's fist, abruptly occupying the center of his face.

Ron's eyes widened, desperately suppressing a laugh and the twitching of his lips, and he said, "You...you said 'Firebolt'!"

"Foul, buddy!"

Harry reached out and touched the strange nose, puzzled, and exclaimed in frustration, "Wait! Firebolt is a broom, how is that against the rules?!"

His voice sounded muffled and comical due to his stuffy nose.

Neville was laughing so hard he was clutching his stomach, saying, "Flying...flying brooms are part of Quidditch!"

Harry was speechless.

Ron and his friends could no longer hold back and burst into laughter.

Harry had already rushed to the mirror by the wall, and the moment he saw his reflection, he let out a miserable wail: "Ron! When will this grotesque face change back? I look like a grotesque nose!"

“One hour…it’s written in the contract…just bear with it!” Ron wiped away his tears, his voice broken.

Harry stared at his ridiculously handsome face in the mirror, speechless with frustration.

Who told me to fall into their trap so easily?

He sighed and went back to bed feeling dejected.

Ron climbed into bed, lowered the curtains, and a smile spread across his face.

This step of the plan has been successful; now it's time to see what happens next.

The first thing Voldemort did after getting up the next morning was to touch the area slightly below his eyes and pull out the book "Dreams and Your Life".

(End of this chapter)